


Cabin for Two

by fictionallemons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Beer, Cabins, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Christmas Vacation, Happy Ending, Kissing, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Pining Sam Winchester, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Snow, Soft Dean Winchester, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 15:18:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21120923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionallemons/pseuds/fictionallemons
Summary: Dean and Sam take a few days off at Christmas. Pining Sam and eventual kissing.





	Cabin for Two

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to Supernatural (just finished binging the first season) so this fic is set in that era. Thanks for reading!

Dean's been quiet for a few days since they took out the spirit haunting the old schoolhouse in Aberdeen. They've been driving north, even though the weather forecast hasn't been great. It's looking like they might get a white Christmas this year.

Not that Sam's particularly looking forward to Christmas.

But Dean won't let them stop and slow down. He seems to be heading somewhere particular, even though he won't tell Sam where or why. It's a testament to how much Sam trusts Dean that he barely blinks when they pull up to a cabin on the outskirts of a nothing town in the foothills of the Rockies.

"What's this?" Sam asks.

Dean clears his throat. He seems oddly nervous. "It's Christmas Eve, Sam."

"I know."

"So, we're taking a couple of days off. And we're not spending Christmas in another shitty motel room. So, come on, get your stuff."

"We're staying here?"

"I rented it for the week."

Sam felt his eyebrows lift. He wants to argue. They can't afford it. But something about the set of Dean's shoulders as his brother hoists his bag and starts up the tidy flagstone walk has him snapping his mouth shut.

He mentally shrugs and grabs his own bag. It's not like he's opposed to staying somewhere…nice. Because that's what this place is. Nice.

It's furnished, and clean, basically a giant open floor plan anchored at one end by a massive fireplace, the kitchen on the other side, living space in between. He glances up, sees a loft bedroom. There's probably another bedroom someplace, but for the moment he just adjusts to the silence of being off the interstate. The woods around them are quiet, but not in a menacing way. It's kind of peaceful. The air smells like snow's on the way. Sam breathes out slowly. He needs this. _They_ need it. Dean, like always, gives him what he needs.

He turns to thank him, to admit that it was a great idea to take a couple of days off, but Dean's already heading for the door. "Where are you going?"

"Going back to town for supplies. I'll be back."

Sam wants to tell him to be careful, but he bites back the words like he always does. Dean's careful.

"Get beer," he calls, instead.

"Dude, what did you think I meant by 'supplies?'" Dean smiles and then he adds, "Get a fire going, would you?"

"Sure."

He hears Dean fire up the Impala and back down the road. Sam purposefully does not watch him drive away, even though every time Dean drives away from him there's a tiny sliver of him that worries it's the last time he'll see him. Okay, maybe more than a tiny sliver. But that's dumb.

Sam shakes off the feeling, goes back inside. He takes his time building the fire, locating bone-dry wood on the back porch, enough to last a few days at least. He sags back into the oversized couch, closing his eyes, enjoying the fruits of his labors as the fire blazes merrily. Then his eyes fly open, remembering something he's got stashed at the bottom of his bag. 

He grabs his duffle, pulls out the item. He rummages around in the kitchen until he's found adequate supplies—some plain brown craft paper and kitchen twine make for rustic gift wrap, but they get the job done. Dean won't care about that, anyway. He hides the now-wrapped gift back at the bottom of his duffel, decides to take a shower while Dean's still out.

There's a half-bath off the kitchen, but he has to climb the stairs to the loft to find the shower. There's huge bathroom just off the bedroom, which consists mostly of a giant bed. It's so big it's probably big enough for Sam and Dean both. Since Sam hasn't encountered any other bedrooms in the place, they might have to share.

No big deal. They've done it before, in a pinch, and usually in much crappier quarters than this. But still, Sam wonders why if Dean had gone to all the trouble of renting a place he hadn't found one with two beds.

There's an actual bath tub, a fancy faux-antique copper one, but Sam goes for the shower, which is generously sized and seems to have an endless supply of hot water. Sam usually has to duck in motel showers, fold himself into origami just to get clean, but in this one he's got room to spread out, the water falling from a good foot above him. Whoever designed this house must have designed it for someone at least as tall as Sam. Huh.

He's toweling off when he hears the door downstairs opening.

"Sammy?" Dean yells from the kitchen.

Sam walks over to the loft railing, towel slung along his hips. "Up here."

"Oh." Dean lifts his head to meet Sam's gaze, then looks away, out the big picture window on the kitchen side of the house."It's starting to snow." He looks back at Sam, his expression unreadable.

"White Christmas," Sam says. Then he smiles. Dean smiles back.

"Yeah, I guess it is, Sammy."

***

They inhale a semi-homemade feast of fried chicken, mashed potatoes from a box, cornbread. The sensation of having nowhere to be and nothing to fight finally sinks into Sam by his third beer, and after they hastily tidy up the kitchen they go sit in front of the fire.

"I wonder how much snow we'll get," Sam says lazily. The fire's warm and his belly's full and a pleasant lethargy has invaded his body. The oversized couch holds him comfortably. It's big enough for Dean, too, but he sits on the floor, a few inches closer to the fireplace. The orange light bounces off his face. His long eyelashes make shadows on his cheeks. Sam blinks away the observation.

Dean's voice is low and slow, like he's on the verge of falling asleep. "Heard on the radio maybe six inches? Nothing to worry about."

Sam doesn't say that he wasn't worried. He doesn't say that he was sort of hoping they'd be snowed in and have an excuse to stay here in this relative palace of comfort, just the two of them. But he's used to not saying what he's thinking, so it's not hard to respond with silence.

Then Dean yawns and suddenly a jolt of…something…zips through Sam when he remembers about the bed. 

"Uh, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I already grabbed a shower. Do you want to—"

"Okay. Yeah." Dean's voice is more alert. Sam stays put as Dean gets up in a fluid motion and heads for the stairs. His duffel's been sitting at the bottom of the steps the whole night, and Sam notices that he brings it with him. Then there's he sound of a door closing, and water turning on. Sam doesn't count the minutes his brother is in the shower. He doesn't imagine Dean standing under the spray, getting drenched by the powerful, high shower head. He certainly doesn't hold his breath when he hears Dean finally emerging from the bathroom, and come down the stairs, his steps quiet now that he's barefoot.

Then Dean's standing at the end of the couch in a pair of sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt that's been washed so many times Sam can see the ridges of Dean's abs through it.

"Time for bed, Sammy," Dean says. Sam wishes the blood in his veins didn't turn to molten lava at Dean's tired growl. It doesn't make sense that he's so hot inside, but he shivers, just once.

"Okay," Sam says, not quite understanding Dean's impatient crossing of arms.

"I'll take care of the fire, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not worried about anything," Sam says automatically.

"Whatever. I'm tired."

Sam still doesn't get it, until he does. Dean's going to sleep on the couch. Sam has to get up, so Dean can go to sleep.

"Are you sure you don't want the bed?" Sam hears himself say.

Dean smiles a little. "No, I don't. I want you to sleep in a bed without your feet hanging off the end for once."

"Oh." Sam feels like maybe he's a little slow on the uptake tonight. "I guess I'm tired too." He unfolds himself to standing, glancing around him uselessly. "Goodnight, Dean."

"Goodnight, Sam."

Sam crosses by Dean on his way to the stairs. He smells like Irish Spring soap. Sam pauses on the landing before going to brush his teeth. Dean's crouching by the fireplace, banking the fire for the night. There's a thick throw blanket and plenty of pillows for Dean to turn the couch into a bed. And it's a comfortable couch, as Sam can attest to. Still, Sam feels a little guilty when he settles into the giant-sized bed. There's plenty of room for two. But Dean was right. Sam's feet are nowhere near the end of the mattress. He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

***

Christmas morning Sam's up early, but not as early as Dean. He peeks over the loft railing and Dean's shuffling around the kitchen, his hair sticking up all over his head, sweatpants riding low on his hips. He's wrestling with the coffee maker and frowning at it, then finds the button he needs and his frown slides into a triumphant grin and Sam's heart turns over, just once before Sam can order it not to.

Sam combs his hair with his fingers, skips getting changed since Dean didn't either. By the time he makes it downstairs, the coffee's almost finished brewing and Dean's started on pancakes.

"Pancakes?" Sam asks. They're his favorite but he knows Dean likes waffles better.

"Easier," Dean says briefly. Sam shrugs, pours himself a cup of coffee.

"Fuck, that's good," he says after the first sip, the caffeine galloping through his system. Then he digs through a couple of cupboards until he finds a waffle maker in the back of one and he shoves Dean over a few feet and they end up by making waffles, too.

They eat their second big meal of the weekend in front of the fire, and then Dean finds a pack of cards and a cribbage board and Sam's a little rusty but he still ends up by skunking Dean, but he doesn't crow about it. Too much.

Eventually they get dressed and go outside to inspect the snowfall, just about six inches, as predicted, and bring in more firewood from the porch. Sam walks out a little ways, gathers a handful of snow for research purposes. It's not super wet, so it doesn't make the world's most perfect snowball, but it's good enough for throwing. He gets lucky, hitting Dean on the back of the neck, and Dean yells and jumps as the slush slides down into his shirt. Sam laughs and Dean says, "Oh, it's on," and they spend twenty breathless minutes trying to smother each other in snow until they call a truce, panting and wet. Sam feels twelve years old again. Except for the part where he notices the ice crystals on Dean's scruff and kind of want to lick them off.

"Want some hot chocolate?" Dean asks when they have their breath back.

"Always."

***

Afternoon somehow gives way to evening and they're eating again, leftovers for the most part, and making their way through another six pack. After, bellies full, they let the fire die down while they play another game of cribbage. When the living room starts to feel chilly, Dean uses his bowie knife to shave some kindling onto the embers. Sam watches him mindlessly, until he yelps and Dean looks over, confused. "What?"

"I almost forgot!" He tears up the stairs, rummages at the bottom of his bag for the present. He runs back down and thrusts it at Dean who looks faintly amused. "I should have given this to you earlier. But it's still Christmas, so."

Dean sets more logs on the fire, then takes the package, turns it over in his hands.

"Open it."

Dean nods, and carefully unties the string as if he'll need to use it again later. Sam's bouncing up and down on his toes waiting for Dean to unwrap the paper. "Dean, come on."

Dean just sets the paper aside, and stares at the leather sheath and the carved wooden handle. He glances at Sam once, and then back down at the knife, pulling out the blade slowly. It shines in the firelight.

"I got it at that store in Boulder. Remember?"

"Yeah." Dean's voice is a little rougher than usual.

"I've had it for weeks. Do you like it?"

Dean clears his throat. "Yeah, I like it, Sammy. Thank you."

Sam feels his face stretch into a grin. He'd thought Dean would like it, but he'd been a little worried it was too much. But when he'd seen in, he knew Dean needed to have it. Sharp, lethal, but comfortable to hold. Dean likes a well-crafted weapon.

"I didn't get you anything," Dean says, his lips turned down.

"Of course you did," Sam says simply. "You got this place. You made sure the bed would fit me—the shower, everything. You gave us this time."

Dean doesn't answer, just ducks his head, runs his thumb along the knife's edge.

"Thank you," Sam says softly. "This is the nicest Christmas I've ever had."

"Me too, Sam."

Nobody's just almost died, no gut-wrenching confessions have taken place, but Sam doesn't think a hug would be rebuffed. It's Christmas, after all. He steps into Dean's space, hesitates, and then Dean leans in and lets him wrap his arms around him. The part of Sam's heart that's always a little bit anxious, a little bit unmoored, goes still and quiet with Dean that close. Without thinking about it, Sam presses a kiss to Dean's temple, or he tries to, but Dean shifts and he ends up by grazing his lips over Dean's cheekbone, instead. More like a kiss on the cheek than the head. Dean seems to be shaking. Sam lets go, feeling slightly foolish, but still happy. Dean's looking everywhere but Sam, so Sam backs away.

"I guess I'll go to bed," he says, feeling like that's the last thing he wants to do, but sensing that Dean needs some space.

"All right."

He climbs the stairs slowly, feeling awkward. It's like he doesn't know what to do with his hands. They hang at his side, useless because the only thing they know how to do is hold Dean, and Dean doesn't want to be held. Not by Sam. Not the way Sam wants to hold him. He sighs, and he knows Dean can probably hear him the way the acoustics in the house are, but it doesn't matter.

He goes into the bathroom, strips off his clothes, and stands under the hot water, trying to connect with something normal instead of something so pointless as being in love with his brother. He'd been normal once, for about five minutes, back in college. He has to admit that college had been great, as long as he was able to put Dean out of his mind. Because when he thought about Dean, all he wanted to do was say fuck normalcy and be with the one person who made him feel whole, no matter how not-normal he was.

Sam shuts of the water, towels off. His bag's still on the bed from when he retrieved the present earlier, so he goes out with the towel slung around his waist, sighing again.

He stops short. Dean's sitting on the bed, skin golden in the lamplight, face serious. "That's a big sigh, Sammy," he says.

"Uh, yeah, I guess."

"What are you sighing about?"

"You don't want to know."

"I thought you were having a nice time."

"I am."

"So why the sigh?"

"No special reason," Sam says, getting irritated now that Dean won't drop it.

Dean nods toward the bed. "You sleep okay up here?"

"Yeah. I slept like the d—well, really well." Sam suddenly remembers he's only got a towel on, and goes to his bag to get out sleep clothes, which brings him a foot away from Dean. "Was the couch okay?"

"It was great," Dean says. 

Sam can't tell if he's just saying that or not. He sighs, and then cringes, because he's been doing too much sighing apparently if Dean's commenting on it. "There's tons of room up here if you want to share."

Dean doesn't answer, but he also doesn't leave and Sam feels uncomfortable dropping the towel and getting dressed with him there, so he goes back into the bathroom to dress. Dean's still sitting on the bed when he comes back out. "What's up, Dean?"

"Nothing." Neither of them is being very convincing, but Sam doesn't know how to tear down the veil that's risen up between them. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Okay." That makes sense. Sam's reading too much into everything. Dean was just waiting for him to finish with the bathroom. He settles into bed, picks up the detective novel that he'd found on a shelf in the living room. He's read fifteen pages and already knows who the murderer is when Dean emerges from the bathroom, Irish Spring-scented steam escaping along with him.

Sam leans up on an elbow. Dean's back in those sweats and threadbare shirt and he still hasn't shaved, so his stubble looks more like the beginnings of a beard by now. He's perfect.

Sam suppresses yet another sigh, flops back down. He doesn't expect Dean to walk toward the bed, fold the sheets down on the other side.

"Maybe I will share. If that's all right?" Dean's being weird. Polite and hesitant. Sam scoots over a little more, nods. Dean climbs in. There's still an ocean of bed between them, it's that big.

They just lie there for a minute, until Sam realizes they can't fall asleep until one of them turns off the light on Dean's night table. He shifts and looks over. Dean's eyes are closed. Sam reaches across him, his long arm aiming for the lamp's pull cord. He shuts off the light with a click, glances down. Dean's looking up at him. His eyes glitter in the dark. His mouth is a hard slash, but his lips are still the platonic ideal of lips.

Sam moves on instinct, lowers his mouth down and kisses Dean on the cheek again, but this time on purpose. When he pulls up, Dean's still looking at him. His eyes look squinty—almost as if he's holding back tears.

Sam's about to chalk the whole thing up to being an idiot and settle back down but Dean's hand closes around his wrist, gentle but firm, keeping him there, hovering. Dean's expression is a mixture of hope, want, and despair. Sam moves on instinct again. This time his lips graze Dean's, soft. Barely a kiss. Something they could erase, if they wanted to.

When he pulls back again, Dean is visibly shaking underneath him, but he doesn't let go of Sam's wrist. "Are you sure, Sam?" Dean asks. His voice is thrashed like the morning after a rough night.

Sam's heart tries leaping out of his chest. "Yes. I'm sure." Sam's never been more sure of anything.

Dean responds by surging up, kissing Sam with a fierceness that matches everything Sam knows about his brother. It's just that, for long minutes, trading kisses that are so hot, so deep, that Sam feels like he's never been truly, properly kissed before this night. He's almost afraid to move, afraid to touch any other part of Dean lest the kissing stop.

But eventually, Dean's shaking too hard underneath him that Sam has to stop. Dean's smiling, but his eyes are wet.

"Don't cry, Dean," Sam says softly, wiping away the tears with his thumbs.

"It's just—you're all I ever wanted, Sam. Just you." Dean lets out a shaky breath.

Sam smiles at him, the piece of his heart that Dean's always held in his hand calm and safe and truly whole for the first time. "Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Merry Christmas, Sammy."


End file.
